


In The Name Of Entertainment

by PrivateBi



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: (singular limb to be precise), Angst, Blood, Cecil and Juno have a Weird Unspoken Thing, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Limbs, Pre-Canon, Sections of equal length? In this economy?, also, it's not Graphic graphic but it's certainly a Thing That Happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 15:05:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17583113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrivateBi/pseuds/PrivateBi
Summary: Cecil hired a gang to kidnap him, and lost his arm as a result. This is my take on what happened.





	In The Name Of Entertainment

**Author's Note:**

> HEY TILDA THANKS FOR BETA READING I OWE U MY LIFE

The wooden chair in which Cecil was sitting would have been uncomfortable even if he hadn’t been tied to it. Its back was stiff and straight, the seat was uncushioned, and the sharp edges of the too-short armrests dug into his wrists. Well. Actually just a singular wrist. The other one was fine, except for the fact that it was slowly cooling in a bag across the room, along with the rest his severed forearm. 

One of the mobsters had called it incentive for ransom - a consequence for too many hours without a cred transfer from his family - but the one who’d actually cut it off seemed like she was just doing it for fun. He’d screamed theatrically and pulled against his restraints, only to be silenced by a back-handed blow to the face. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Kanagawa,” she’d said. “It’s not as if anyone is going to hear you.” 

It was true; all of the recording devices he’d hidden on his person, along with all the discreet camera drones he’d programmed to follow him, had been disabled by a sonic pulse that made his ears ring in the seconds before the chloroform put him to sleep. If he’d known this gang would take out the cameras, he’d have hired someone else to kidnap him instead.

Before Cecil could resume mourning all the lost footage, and before he could carry on struggling much longer, the gangster put the serrated edge of a bonesaw - a beautiful instrument that Cecil would have liked for his own personal collection - against the soft, milk-white flesh just below his elbow. The veins there were prominent, lacy blue-green patterns like spiderwebs, straining with a pulse so heavy and fast it seemed it could break through his delicate skin. Logically, he knew what must have happened in the seconds that followed, but all he could remember clearly was a surge of adrenaline, like ice water being poured into his chest cavity.

When lucidity returned, he found himself thinking that the hastily-bandaged wound at what was now the end of his arm wasn’t nearly as bothersome as he’d thought it would be. He’d assumed such an injury would be far more traumatic, judging by the reactions of all the people who’d been dismembered on his shows over the years. They’d screamed and carried on like they were dying of pain - and to be fair, some of them had actually died - but apparently a lot of the drama could be chalked up to good acting. Cecil internally applauded their commitment to the art of entertainment. 

One thing that did live up to his expectations, however, was the bleeding. His clothes were spattered with sticky half-dried blood, and there was a sizable puddle at his feet tainting the air with the smell of iron. The wound had been hastily bandaged by another of the gangsters, so the worst of the bleeding had stopped, but the gauze was still stained a startling red. Every so often another drop of blood soaked through the bandage and spattered onto the floor. The amount of bleeding was concerning, but the pain was dull and distant, more like a persistent heat than anything else. In contrast, the rest of him was positively freezing. He couldn’t feel his fingers or toes and his teeth chattered around the gag in his mouth. More pressingly, the saliva-soaked piece of cloth they’d used to shut him up seemed to be impeding his breathing more severely than it had been a few minutes ago. He found himself inhaling and exhaling rapidly around it, too shallowly to be satisfying, as his heart beat as if he were running for his life. On camera - if the cameras had been working - it would have almost looked like he was having a panic attack, but that wasn’t right, that wasn’t what this was. He knew there was a word for it, he’d heard it before while filming an episode where there had been a casualty, but he couldn’t seem to bring it to the front of his mind; his thoughts were bees in a smoked-out hive, confusion in slow motion. 

Lights danced in front of his eyes with blurry, dizzying motions. As a child, he’d liked to press the heels of his hands into his eyelids to paint the blackness behind them with blues and greens that twisted and swirled. This was almost like that, but his eyes were open, weren’t they? He tested this theory, and discovered that he was, in fact, able to close his eyes, so they must have been open before. More relevantly, he found that the resulting darkness felt safe and comfortable. He hadn’t realized how tired he was until he struggled to open his eyes again. He blinked them slowly a few times, in spite of how heavy they felt, but the world around him never quite fell into focus. With some effort, he could make out that the flashing lights had stopped, and a blurry something was approaching him. The blur - maybe it was a person, they seemed vaguely person-shaped - came to a stop, crouched in front of him. 

“Oh god, this is bad. I - dammit that’s a lot of blood.” 

There was the sound like someone about to be sick, then a few deep breaths. A few moments later, the person reached around Cecil’s head, loosening the gag. They eased it out of his mouth, which continued to hang open even after the knot of cloth was removed. 

“Cecil? Hey, Cecil, do you hear me? Goddammit stop sitting there like you’re a dead man and answer me!”

There was something familiar about that voice, almost like… but no, that couldn’t be it. It was just a bunch of mobsters down there with him. But then again, surely they wouldn’t be so squeamish. Besides, no mobster had any business touching his neck like that, placing two fingers just below his jaw, not gentle enough to be tender nor rough enough to be painful. Whoever this person was, they really ought to invest in a better moisturizer. Or any moisturizer really, their hands felt like they’d never come within a five-mile radius of a bottle of lotion. While they were at it, they should also stop swearing so much. Didn’t anyone ever tell them that too many curse words made for a repetitive script? They’d only wind up detracting from the overall entertainment of the show. It was a common faux pas in show business, or so Min had told him.

“- okay, so now his lips are blue, that can’t be -”

Oh. They were still talking. He must’ve zoned out a bit. Who could fault him, really, he was more exhausted than he remembered ever being, and there were distractions everywhere. For example, the inexplicable smell of day-old alcohol in the air around him. Actually, that merited further thought. It had appeared so suddenly, and somehow it was familiar, in the same way as that voice, and the blue eyes that swam through his vision. Those things belonged to someone he knew, belonged to -

“Junebug?”

There was an audible exhale of breath. “Not the name on my card, but it’ll do. I’ve gotta say, I -” 

He kept talking, and Cecil found himself nodding off. Juno apparently didn’t like that, because he started shouting, but Cecil was already too far gone to care. The last thing he remembered was slumping forward into Juno’s chest, warm and familiar.

* * *

 

Cecil knew exactly where he was when he next awoke: in Juno’s arms. Strong arms, one supporting his legs and the other pressed into his back, holding him tight, carrying him like a bride. He could feel the fabric of a coat collar against his cheek, cheap material worn soft with use, smelling like laundry detergent. The world around him was strange and dreamlike, but these arms around him were comforting and familiar. Sensory memories of other times he’d been in the same position flashed through Cecil’s hazy, distractible mind. 

The first time, leaping toward Juno, hoping Croesus would see it when he reviewed that week’s footage and cringe at how familiar his son had become with this disapproved-of private eye. Juno’d tried to push him away, before giving in and embracing him. That was the first time Cecil ever noticed the smell of tea tree soap that lingered under the boozy cloud that Juno carried with him. 

Another time, scooped up suddenly, an impromptu weight to prove Juno’s strength to Cassandra. They’d all laughed, then, and Cecil remembered exactly how Juno’s laugh felt reverberating through his chest. He’d protested when it was time to put his feet back on the ground, but Juno set him down with all the care one gives a delicate porcelain doll, so he didn’t mind too much.   
A few weeks ago, Juno’s limbs tangled with his, slick with sweat and sticking to the cooling sheets. Cecil ran his fingertips gently across the raised scratch marks he’d left on Juno’s back, took note of every scar they interrupted. Juno mirrored the actions with his own hands, up and down Cecil’s ribs and spine, which both jutted grotesquely under his skin. Neither of them asked any questions.

Now, the only parts of Cecil that felt warm were the places Juno was touching him. He buried his face in Juno’s shoulder to leech off his heat, but carried on shivering all the same. He was all but paralyzed by the cold and pain, but if Juno was holding him that meant he was as safe as he could possibly be. All he had to do was keep holding on, and Juno’d take care of everything else. That was the kind of lady he was, the kind who protects people, who takes care of them. So different from everyone else Cecil had ever known, so novel and fascinating. 

It was only distantly that Cecil became aware of the sirens and flashing lights drawing closer. Lights like that created dramatic shadows and strobe effects, especially reflecting as they were off the puddles on the pavement; this moment was made to be captured on camera, but all of his cameras were broken. Nobody knew that but him, he had to tell someone, had to get a camera crew here as soon as he could. 

“Junebug,” he tried to say, barely able to force a whisper from between his lips. “They cut-” 

Juno turned his head so Cecil could see his face. There were streaks of red on it, and he looked worried. “Yeah, I know, Cecil,” he interrupted. “You don’t have to tell me what they did to your arm. I’m so sorry I didn’t get there in time to-”

“No, you don’t understand. They cut the cameras.” Even these few words stole his breath, made his head feel light and his vision blur. Still, he repeated, “they cut the cameras.” 

That was all he could say before he blacked out again.

* * *

 

Cecil woke up slowly, consciousness returning to him as if through a filter. His fingers tingled, and a warm, heavy numbness spread through the rest of his body; the absence of pain a heady pleasure in its own right. Someone must have given him painkillers, he’d recognize this familiar opiate high anywhere. Judging from this fact, and the steady beeping of a heart monitor - which sounded exactly like the ones in fiction streams - behind him, he was in a hospital. Juno was beside him, talking to himself, voice reaching Cecil belatedly as the fog began to clear. 

“ - screwed it up again, Steel. You had a whole twelve hours to crack this case, and you were still too late, nevermind the fact that you’ve solved worse in less time. No, the moment anyone close to you is involved, you do everything wrong, take every false lead those gangsters drop in front of you, let them play you like some cheap kazoo. And what for? For some pretty boy who calls you silly names and shows you a good time whether you want one or not. Someone with a mind so unbelievably messed up you thought you couldn’t possibly make him any worse.” Juno laughed humorlessly at that, before continuing. “It was always going to blow up in somebody’s face, but this time you were hoping it’d be your own.”

Those words weren’t intended for him, but they still stung, in a way medicine couldn’t mask. It wasn’t as if Juno was far off the mark, not for either of them, but Cecil had never wanted to hear it spoken aloud like that. It was more comfortable to carry on pretending not to know - or maybe just not to care - that he and Juno were nothing more than partners in hedonistic self-destruction, taking advantage of whatever body was there in the moment. The reality of this relationship was empty, in a way that made Cecil’s chest feel the same, cold and hollow and achy. 

As his thoughts grew more agitated, the sound of the heart monitor beside him sped up, betraying his wakefulness earlier than he’d wanted it to. He wasn’t ready to start performing yet; no one had clued him in on the script, or even told him if filming had begun. Couldn’t he continue feigning sleep for a little while longer? Take on the easy role for once in his life? He’d put his whole self on the line for the show today, bled and suffered and let his body be mutilated all in the name of entertainment. He’d set up the perfect scene, but he wasn’t sure he had enough energy left in him to star in it. 

“Shhh, Cecil, it’s just a dream,” said Juno, mercifully mistaken. His voice was kinder, less sharp, now that it was directed at someone other than himself. Cecil took this lucky break gratefully and played the part of restless sleeper, turning his head slightly to the side, murmuring something unintelligible. He furrowed his brow to cement a look of distress sufficient to explain the sudden increase in his pulse that had, in reality, been caused by Juno’s hurtful words. Cecil might have held on to those insults, however truthful, had they not been driven from his mind by the soothing words washing over him now. 

“It’s alright, it’s all over now, you’re safe.” Juno punctuated these phrases with gentle caresses, which smoothed away the worried creases in Cecil’s forehead and moved back to card through his hair. “Just rest, I’ve got you.” 

Normally, there were only two ways to get Juno to go all tender and sweet like this: get him high, or fuck him to exhaustion. If Cecil had known there was a third option, he’d have started faking nightmares ages ago. He wanted to be spoiled like this on the daily. Juno’s voice and hands, both uncharacteristically soft and careful, were so soothing that Cecil’s false slumber very nearly became real. He could feel the opioids in his system pulling him back under, rocking him to sleep in time with the rhythm of Juno’s hand through his hair. 

Until the sound of Min wailing rang through the hallway, shattering the moment and causing Juno to quiet and withdraw his hand. She sobbed, projecting the sound as if onstage, pausing intermittently to cry out “oh, my poor baby,” and other hackneyed phrases of motherly distress. Whoever wrote this script for her had clearly done a rush job. The doorknob squeaked, and he braced himself for the cameras. 

A choreographed flurry of sound rushed in with the Kanagawa family. Cecil heard a soft gasp from Cassandra as she caught sight of him; the agitated tapping of Croesus’s long fingernails against a styrofoam cup that brought with it the smell of coffee; the inhuman growls, clicks, and whirrs of what sounded like at least two camera men; and Min’s dramatic crying, which nearly drowned out everything else. The last of these was made even more grating by its proximity to Cecil’s ears as Min moved to stand just beside him and squeeze his shoulder. It probably looked great on camera, a soothing gesture of affection from a concerned stepmother to her injured son. In reality, Min’s fingers were like claws, digging into his skin in a gesture that felt more possessive than anything else. She smelled overwhelmingly like the menthol gel she must have been wearing under her eyes to induce tears. Cecil wished she’d let go of him, but it wasn’t yet the right moment to stage his awakening, so he tolerated it. 

Cecil could tell by the cloying stink of cologne that it was Croesus who moved around the other side of his bed and lifted the sheet covering the stump of his arm, whipping it away from him like a magician pulling back a curtain. Cold snuck in at the gap, and Cecil suppressed a shiver so the cameraman taking a close-up shot of the ruined limb wouldn’t catch the motion on tape. Then, as quickly as he’d removed it, he replaced the cover once more and said with venom, “I thought I paid you to bring my son back in one piece.”

So, Juno hadn’t slunk out when the family arrived. He’d decided to stick around and let Croesus eviscerate him in a way that would, assuming his father’s knife collection was all still in his gallery, only be verbal. 

“I did.” Juno replied.

“Then explain this,” snapped Croesus. Cecil could picture the way he must have gestured emphatically at the space his arm should have occupied. 

“You never specified that the piece he came back in had to be the same shape as it was when he left.” The shit-eating grin was evident in Juno’s voice, sardonic and joyless. The kind of joke, the kind of tone, that was practically asking for people to despise him. He was in a room full of Kanagawas, the most influential gang in Hyperion City, and he was willingly inviting their ire. He and Cecil had done a lot of stupid things together, but this topped them all. Still, he carried on. 

“Honestly, with all the paperwork you go through just to control who comes into your house, I’m surprised you didn’t catch that flaw in our agreement when I took this job.” Cecil internally begged Juno to shut up before Croesus was tempted to force him to, but it was ineffectual. “But maybe that’s giving you too much credit, assuming that your children’s well-being means anything to you past the viewer base they draw in. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if you wanted this to happen.” Cecil could feel Min’s clawlike fingers digging painfully into his bony shoulder as she tightened her grip in anger. “Oh, I get it, that’s why you hired me, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve got to be the worst private eye in the city; I’m not the kind of lady you trust with things that are actually important. You just wanted to put in a cursory effort, make it look like you did everything you could to find your son, so in a few weeks you can turn his unsolved murder into, I don’t know, a prime time special or something.” It sounded to Cecil like Juno was grasping at straws more than he was truly speculating, searching less for facts and more for anything he could say to inspire hatred. 

It worked. Maybe there had been a grain of truth in that last statement, because Croesus finally exploded. “How dare you speak about me that way you bitch!” There was a crash and a clatter as he, presumably, knocked Juno out of his chair and onto the floor. “There is nothing more important to me than my family; that’s the entire Kanagawa brand, and I will not stand by and let you disrespect that! The only truthful thing you’ve said to me just now is that you are, without a shadow of a doubt, the worst detective this city has ever seen! I ought to-”

“Yeah, uh, I’m gonna stop you for a second,” Juno interrupted, and Croesus’s mouth snapped shut with a click. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you finish, but do you think you could tear me apart in the hall instead? It’s just that Cecil’s sleeping in here.” 

“Of all the insolent…” Croesus started, then paused. When he continued, the anger in his voice was gone, replaced by steely, cold professionalism. “Come to think of it, you may have a point. Min, darling, would you care to join me and Detective Steel outside? I believe we have a few matters of importance to discuss.”

The door squeaked open, and Cassandra flippantly called out. “Later, Juno.”

“Take care of yourself, Cass,” was the reply. “And Cecil too, yeah? Something tells me we won’t be seeing much of each other after this.”

Next to none of this footage was going to be usable, Cecil could already tell. It painted the whole family in the worst light, there was no way that would fly on-screen. According to his original plans, this kidnapping should have been enough for a feature-length stream, or maybe a mini-series. However, if the amount of time he’d been on camera was any indication, there would barely be enough drama for a regular episode. It was a crushing failure which might have pulled Cecil’s thoughts into a spiral if not for the calming side-effects of the medicine dripping into his veins.

Min, who had not paused in performing her lament, finally released Cecil’s shoulder, and followed the two of them out of the room. The sound of her crocodile tears stopped abruptly a few seconds before the door slammed closed, leaving him alone with Cass and the cameramen. 

The thudding of Cassandra’s heavy boots marked her path to the chair from which Juno had just been evicted, which she righted and sank into heavily. She took his hand - his only hand, the reality of which was just now beginning to sink in - and pressed it to her cheek. He could feel tears there, and hear her sniffling softly. There was no smell of menthol surrounding her, so he knew the crying was entirely natural. Cass was just that good. 

He decided to one-up her. 

He made a disoriented-sounding noise under his breath to make sure the cameramen knew to watch him as he blinked his eyes open blearily. The hospital lights were bright enough to hurt, and he played that to his advantage, letting his eyelashes flutter closed before opening them again and repeating the process two or three times. On-screen, it should look as if he were struggling to remain conscious.  It was a tried-and-true strategy that Cassandra herself had used often enough that she should be able to work out he’d been faking his slumber.

“Cecil?” she said with tearful concern, and a truly artistic note of hopefulness. “Cecil, it’s me, can you hear me?” She gripped his hand even more tightly as she spoke, moving it from her cheek to clutch it to her chest. 

It was easy enough to make his voice sound weak and pitiful; in truth, he probably couldn’t have conjured up any other tone. “Cass…” he rasped, erring on the side of simplicity with his chosen dialogue. 

He quickly found himself wrapping his arm around Cass’s back, because she let go of his hand in favor of leaning over to embrace him, burying her face in his shoulder and feigning relieved sobbing. He rubbed circles into the fabric of her shirt with his thumb, a tiny detail that would look sweet in a close-up shot, until she decided she’d had enough of crying and appeared to calm down once more. She continued holding onto him long enough to whisper something not intended for the audience’s ears. 

“We’re all over every news stream in Hyperion. Views are about to skyrocket, you’re a genius.” 

Satisfaction bloomed in Cecil’s chest, and a small smile appeared on his face without conscious motion. In spite of all he’d lost in the last 24 hours, the performance had been a success.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Fact: the word Cecil was looking for was "hypovolemic shock," which is what happens when you loose too much blood. 
> 
> You can find me @ginnie-darling on tumblr, where I am, if this fic is any indication, a Cecil Stan on main.


End file.
